𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕃𝕠𝕤𝕤... 

I never wanted a man just to warm the empty side of my bed. I wanted a husband.

The kind you sit across from at 2 a.m. while the rest of the world is asleep.

The kind of quiet where the house hums and the coffee goes cold while you talk about God, old wounds, unpaid bills, the future… and whether love is something people build together or something they simply survive.

I wanted to marry you.

But if I’m being honest, underneath that hope was fear.

Not the loud kind.

The quiet kind that lives in the back of your chest.

The kind that whispers that somewhere inside you there’s a fracture… a small crack in the glass that someone will eventually notice if they look long enough.

I grew up in a house where defending myself sounded like disrespect. 

Where explaining my feelings looked like rebellion.

Where my voice sometimes met a belt before it ever met understanding.

So I learned to swallow words before they left my mouth.

I learned that being “too” was dangerous.

Too sensitive.

Too emotional.

Too defensive.

Too quiet.

Too loud.

Just… too much.

And when a little girl hears “too” long enough, she starts shrinking herself down to something easier to hold.

Almost confident.

Almost expressive.

Almost ready.

I worried that if I stood up for myself, you might see aggression where I was only asking for compassion.

I worried that if I cried, you’d see weakness.

I worried that if I led with strength, you’d say I was controlling… or too independent… or difficult to love.

Because somewhere along the way, I was taught that love meant walking across broken glass and calling it carpet.

Still… my heart wanted beautiful, ordinary things.

Amusement park dates where your hand squeezes mine right before the rollercoaster drops.

Late-night grocery store runs that turn into dance battles in aisle seven.

Long conversations about faith and forgiveness… and quiet mornings where we drink coffee together without saying a word.

Simple things.

Sacred things.

But in the quiet, another voice would rise up.

The old one.

The one that learned its language in childhood.

“You’re not enough for forever.

Maybe just enough for right now.”

And that thought terrified me more than losing love.

Because I never wanted to be someone’s temporary comfort.

 

I wanted covenant.

I wanted a man who looked at me and saw a safe place to land.

But the truth is… I was still learning how to be safe inside myself.

So I loved carefully.

Spoke softly.

Held back pieces of the roar inside me.

Not because I wasn’t strong.

But because somewhere along the way I was taught that my strength was something I should apologize for.

And all I ever really wanted…

was a man who could sit across from me at two in the morning, hear the tremble in my truth, and gently say... 

“You were never too much. You were just raised in a place that didn’t know how to hold you.”

But now it’s quiet again.

And now that it’s over… I find myself retreating back to my bedroom.

The same place I used to go long before you ever came into my life.

The place where the lights are low, the world is shut out, and it’s just me and God sitting in the silence.

Because that’s where my healing has always happened.

Not in someone else’s arms.

But on my knees.

Back to the quiet.

Back to the prayers that fall out in tears.

Back to my God who never once told me I was too much.

And maybe… 

this time when He finishes putting my heart back together,

I’ll still have some hope.. that when love finds me, I'll believe its real.